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cursedmoon-doll13 · 10 months

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La Petite Mort

(Lucius Malfoy x Reader)

Cw: Smut, Noncon, PwP, Afab Reader, Death Eater Lucius, Unprotected Sex/Creampie, Fingering, Choking, Forced Orgasm, Degradation (‘slut,’ ‘whore,’ ‘mudblood’), Nasty Graveyard Sex™️

HEED WARNINGS

Word Count: 1.2k

Ao3 || Masterlist || Dividers by @/saradika

Late that evening, you find yourself wandering, loitering, roaming aimlessly in the quiet of your local graveyard. Humid fog cloaks the night as street lamps flicker on and hum, flashing with yellowy light. Death is out of reach, distant and unreal.

But then, it finds you first, grasping you powerfully. You yelp as your head bumps sorely against the mossy tombstone, caged in by a spectre…

“Who— Who are you?!”

The hooded figure does not answer. In the dark, your blood freezes to ice inside your veins as you watch him reach into his clothes and draw out some long, sharp object— A switchblade, he’s going to—

“Muffliato,” he hisses.

The flash of car headlights blinds you— But your desperate pleads for help all go unanswered. He tsks as his gloved hand seizes your jaw and pulls you forcefully towards him. Blown softly from the slits in his mask, his cool breath fans over your skin.

“To think this utter filth could have such an effect on me…” The figure mutters quietly, as if to only himself: “You dare to be so alluring…”

“I— I don’t know what you’re…”

You shriek as he brandishes the pointed object again, uttering incantations, and your clothes melt away like fragile, torn spiderwebs. It dies in your throat as he squeezes your windpipe, the frigid night wind air biting at your naked flesh— If only you could wriggle out of his grasp— but some unnatural force has paralysed you, left you completely at his mercy.

“Hold your tongue, Mudblood,” he spits contemptuously, as the other leathery hand slithers down your belly, prying your thighs apart— Now, you finally understand— His true motive—

A long, smooth finger curls into your pussy, and you screech at the unwelcome intrusion. But then, he pulls briefly out, his strange knife prods at your leg, and lustful heat pours into you— No, this can’t be happening, but oh God, it is— The heady slick of your arousal is coating his glove, eliciting slimy, lewd noises as he pumps mercilessly into your wet cunt— Fuck, he’s tightening his grip on your throat, cutting off your whimpers as you choke, squirming feebly.

“Look at you, muggle slut,” he’s mocking you, his deep voice dipping silkily into a croon. “You are lapping it up, aren’t you? Desperate whore.”

His thumb rubs harshly over your clit, and you shudder, flinching away from the jolt of nerves that stings you; rejecting it. You let out a strangled sort of cry as the offending fingers pinch, hard, and another slides into your soaked pussy, assaulting you utterly.

“All this time, you’ve been waiting for me…” The man sneers haughtily. “None of your weak, worthless kind could ever satisfy you, no, not like I could.”

Fear-stricken, all you can do is stare dumbly into those metal slats. You’re still petrified against the stony grave, as if bound by invisible manacles— Worse still, the satisfaction you feel is real; a fiery spark of pleasure, rising up against your will…

And then you shriek loudly again as you are thrown onto your back on the filthy ground. You see him clearly now, looming tyrannically against the backdrop of a coldly gleaming sky— The outline of a dark, shrouded robe, long strands of silvery hair escaping through the confines of his hood, and the unforgiving visage of his embellished mask…

But your moment of freedom is abruptly cut off as you’re rolled around onto your stomach, gasping and clutching for purchase on the foetid soil. The dark fabric of his shroud billows and wafts over you, strangely pleasant… Almost.

“Yes… This is all you’ve ever wished for,” he murmurs softly into your ear, caressing you, gentle as a lover. “… And so much more. Isn’t that right?”

Your joints lock up, horrified, as the unmistakable outline of his cock twitches over your ass. The hooded figure sighs contentedly, and, flexing his gloved hands, lifts you up by the hips, positioning himself readily over your dripping cunt. You swallow, only capable of whining futilely in protest; whatever restraint binds you, it holds you fast.

“Be still, now,” he commands.

You have no other choice. With a pleasant hum, your assailant fills you to the brim with his cock, sinking into you like hot, insidious venom. Damp cemetery dirt sticks onto your bare flesh, crusting your knees as you press your forehead to the ground… No, no, If you could wish for anything but your escape right now, it would be to smother that sickly sweet aching in your abdomen, the drag against your insides as he rolls his hips into you… Pulling out, slowly, and thrusting back in with a wet slap. He moans deeply.

“This is good, very good…” The masked man purrs. “See how you can pleasure me, serve me… Even as a mudblood. You are gifted, indeed.”

You let out a croaky noise - somehow too exhausted to fight back any longer - as he kneads your thighs, forcing you to take every sordid inch of him into your throbbing cunt. The soil spills through your fingers, whining pitifully as unwanted thrills spiral through you with his every deliberate movement.

“So tight… So wet. You can’t deny it, can you?”

Chuckling, the man adjusts you carefully and fucks you harder still, vibrating your ravished body with a low groan, a decadant thing.

“Ah, you take me so well…”

There’s nothing that can stop the needy whine that spills from your lips, as he just hits that perfectly mind-numbing spot— Are you under some strange fog, a dream, or spell…? He slides you over his cock so perfectly, it feels as if you were meant to be his, in his grip, being used like a beloved plaything… You could almost let him have you… Just let him…

“That’s it,” he’s saying. “Surrender yourself to me.”

As he holds you flush against him, his cool breath brushes over your nape, the silvery strands of his hair tickling your skin. His pace quickens as he rocks steadily into you, lapping over your consciousness like euphoric waves, rising higher and higher…

“Please…”

You don’t know why you’re begging; or what for, but the heat radiating from your core is burning so hot, like boiling poison threatening to spill over. Trembling now, you choke out a strangled moan as his gloved fingers swiftly find your clit again and rub urgently— his breath hastens and hitches above you— his thrusts strike true, burying himself deep inside your pussy— Your walls spasm and clench around him— Your own climax jolts you, giving sorely little warning before releasing its knot and assaulting your body, so intense it’s almost painful— The masked man rolls his hips hard— He cums inside you, and it feels like the sting of fangs, a deposit of venom.

For a moment, there is stillness. You hear the distant squeal of tires again, but louder is your own heartbeat, skittish as a captured prey animal.

“You’re mine, now…”

Your assailant’s darkly rich voice has dipped into a hypnotic hiss - almost calming - and you go limp in his arms, fucked into submission. He hums and softly strokes your hair, almost affectionately, and the darkness, thick and bleak, consumes you.

#lucius malfoy x reader #lucius malfoy x you #lucius x reader #lucius malfoy #lucius malfoy smut #lucius smut #lucius malfoy fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #tw noncon #tw degradation #smut #my writing

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hotluncheddie · 18 days

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how is your autistic Steve? missing him on this Sunday

hello!!! me too omg!!!! he is the best boy!!!

I've been having a couple thoughts about him here and there and I found a old snipped I wrote ages ago in my notes <3

:) ty for reminding me of him tho, my actual true love autistic Steve :)

Eddie notices Steve doing it one night, while a films on, sitting in the dark.

He's rubbing his hands over his mouth, over his lips and cheeks. Over and over again, his fingers or palm rubbing left right, left right, over his lips.

He sees it again one morning. Steve laying on his belly, rubbing his face into the pillow, smushing his nose and turning his whole head left to right and back again. Always slow to wake up, sleepy long after the alarm. He rubs, then huffs. Sighs and relaxes. rubs again.

Eddie can't hold it in any longer, he needs to touch him. So he rolls Steve over, into his arms. Steve hums, high and happy, twisting to be the little spoon. Tucking in close and grinding a little, the menace.

But they’re both too sleepy still, too relaxed. Steve breaths deep and snuggles into Eddie's arms. Then Eddie feels Steve's head move, so he peeks over to see Steve face. He has his eyes closed, rubbing his mouth and lips against the soft duvet. Pressing lightly on his upper lip, and below his nose. Body loose and Eddie tangles their legs together, buries his face in Steve’s neck, and breaths.

Steve plays the same song over and over. It's new, from a band he loved then forgot about. But there’s this part in it, this new song, part of the bridge he thinks Eddie said. Steve likes it so much. Just that little part. He sings along to it, copying it. It sounds so nice.

He plays the song over and over. Eddie helps him put it on a tape. That one song. The one song with that part on the bridge. Over and over on the same tape. It’s so good. Steve plays it on his Walkman if someone is over. Plays it over and over, until his mind starts to wander during it, he's heard it so many times. Until that best part seems stamped in his head - never to be forgotten.

It's so good, that little part, the whole song.

Steve plays it again.

Steve making packed lunches. ✨

It's so he can feel in control. So if everything went weird and wrong in his day, at least he knows that lunch will be normal. The same as every other day.

No worrying about if they have what he wants or if there will be enough protein to keep him feeling full. No stress that there won’t be anything around he wants to eat which would mean he doesn’t eat anything, the hunger manageable for a while until it’s encroaching on him slowly and he’s snapping at Robin but forgetting the cause. His tension rising and his jaw clenching, and before he knows it it’s the end of the day and his head is pounding and all he can do is go home and sleep off his tension headache. Evening gone for anything fun, ruined by pain. Steve hates that.

So Steve makes packed lunches, makes a couple at a time, sometimes enough for the whole week in one go.

Sometimes he has a craving for diner food, and that's okay, him and Robin sharing an order of fries and Steve getting his burger with extra lettuce and pickles on the side. And that's okay, some days, if it feels right. He has his lunch for dinner and enjoys.

But still, he makes packed lunches.

Just so he knows.

No matter what happens. Lunch is the same as every other day. <3

going to once again tag people who might like to see - this is very short but i just, i want as many people as possible to think about autistic Steve, he is so very special

@pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @spectrum-spectre @just-a-tiny-void @steventhusiast

@tangerinesteve @lil-gremlin-things @irethsune @scoops-aboy86 @marvel-ous-m

( sorry if this is annoying )

#hotlunch #steddie #steve x eddie #autistic steve harrington #ask #<3 #ideas #once again #stuff on / in ur mouth is such a good stim

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metalhoops · 1 year

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“I think I’m seeing things, man,” Eddie spoke from his spot on the Harrington’s couch. His white skin appeared paler still against the brown leather.

Steve didn’t blame him. He was on all kinds of painkillers. It’d been two weeks since the world fell apart. Two weeks since Vecna disappeared. Two weeks since Eddie almost died.

Steve liked to treat those memories as others treated head-on collisions. It was better not to look at them directly. It was better to treat it like it’d never happened.

“What’re we looking at?” Steve asked from his spot on the floor, following Eddie’s line of sight to the gap in the curtains.

“Don’t know. Thought I saw somebody outside,” Eddie confessed.

The Harrington house had always been filled with spectres, whether that of partygoers, like front lawn flamingos in need of an exorcism or the body in the backyard pool. But those were Steve’s hang-ups, not Eddie’s.

If all it took to be a ghost was to haunt, Eddie might be included in the ranks of his own private phantasmagoria. He kept checking each night to make sure the boy was really there, that he’d really gotten out. People shouldn’t have that much blood in them, and they definitely shouldn’t have that much blood out of them.

Steve went to the window because that was something he could do for Eddie. He wasn’t sure why he kept feeling the need to apologise. He hadn’t done anything wrong, but hell if Steve knew if he’d done anything right either. He’d gotten Eddie out of the Upside Down. He’d put his hands inside the boy’s body, shoved his shirt beneath his skin and held it in the dark cavity that oozed and throbbed warm blood like the rise and fall of the tide.

Don’t think about it. Check the window. His hands at his side felt cold. He wondered if they’d ever be warm again. There was a figure across the street.

A boy in a basketball jersey circled passed the house.

Things never ended smoothly. Steve liked to think once Jason went down the rest of the vigilante crew would stop looking for Eddie, but there were some stragglers who hadn’t got the message.

Hopper had his hands full trying to clear Eddie’s name. Eddie’s uncle was still looking for him. The whole town was holding their breath in the midst of destruction, waiting for someone to blame. Steve shut the curtains, turned the lights off and moved to Eddie’s side in the darkness.

“Hounds of hell still circling then?” Eddie guessed after one glimpse at Steve’s face.

“I’ll call Hopper,” Steve reasoned, reaching up to squeeze Eddie’s knee. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it. Maybe to make sure he was real. Maybe to tell him he was sorry.

“Don’t worry about it, Steve,” Eddie spoke, reaching out and snagging the hem of Steve’s sweater.

“No one thinks I’m here. If the cops show up at the Harringtons’ it’s going to turn some heads,” Eddie reasoned, and he was right.

So where did that leave them? Sitting alone in the dark with Eddie fading in and out of sleep and Steve watching car headlights dance across the curtains, waiting for the moment everything went wrong.

“Steve?” Eddie breathed beside Steve’s ear in the blackness. He hadn’t realised they were so close.

“Yeah?” Steve moved his eyes from the window to look at Eddie.

“I think I’m crashing,” he noted, a grimace dancing across his face. Steve had never felt smaller.

“Doc said we’ve gotta wait six hours,” Steve replied, hoping he didn’t sound as worried as he felt.

“How long’s it been?”

“Three.”

Steve always wanted to appear cool in times of crisis, but he had no idea what he was doing. Some of the government agents Steve had signed countless NDAs for over the past four years had patched Eddie up as best they could and had started scrambling for a cover-up.

In the meantime, Eddie would stay at Steve’s place. It made the most sense. Eddie was nobody to Steve. No one would go looking for Eddie at the Harringtons’, and unlike the other older teens, he didn’t have parents to answer to. Big house. No parents. Perfect place to lie low.

Steve was nobody to Eddie and yet for the past week, they’d been an island unto themselves, trapped indoors together, watching shadows on the walls and trying to keep each other alive and sane. He felt completely unprepared.

“Alright. Come on. Let’s go to bed,” Steve muttered, kneeling in front of Eddie. He watched the boy rise to a sitting position over his shoulder. Eddie snorted.

“What exactly is the plan here, Steve?”

Eddie had been stuck oscillating between the living room, kitchen, and downstairs bathroom for days. They could both use a change of scenery.

“Piggyback,” Steve spoke, trying not to think about the connotations that the word had garnered. He wasn’t going to think about Vecna. Not today.

He expected the boy to argue, but instead, he felt Eddie’s arms snake around his throat. He held tight, but not as tight as he should. Steve had to hold on to his forearms like backpack straps as he stood. Eddie’s legs were stronger. They held firm around Steve’s waist.

Eddie’s head flopped against Steve’s shoulder blade, nuzzling into the space. He was warm as the sun. Too warm. He was running a temperature. Steve tried not to think of the last time he carried Eddie. The boy was uncharacteristically quiet. Steve needed to do something.

“Saddle up, buckeroo,” Steve spoke, hoisting Eddie further up his back. He felt a puff of air against his neck, a barely there laugh.

“Hi-yo, Silver,” Eddie grumbled against Steve’s skin.

Steve moved deftly through the dark, taking the staircase slowly and methodically. The last thing either of them needed was another broken bone.

“I think I owe you one once all this is over,” Eddie noted. Steve was already shaking his head.

“You stick around, and I’ll call it a favour. I think Henderson would kick my ass if you died.”

“The kid’s got spunk. I’ll give him that,” Eddie noted as the two reached the top of the stairs.

“He’s got an attitude and a problem with authority,” Steve corrected, taking Eddie to his bedroom.

He moved to the edge of his bed and let Eddie extract himself. When they broke apart, Steve felt cold again.

“That’s our boy,” Eddie chuckled, shooting Steve a lopsided smirk. He was definitely still high on painkillers.

Steve rolled his eyes and helped lower Eddie down onto his favourite pillow, the one worn down with age but all the more comfortable for it. He pulled the covers up around the boy’s shoulders.

“Yeah, our boy,” Steve echoed in a too-fond tone.

He’d never let Henderson hear the term of affection. The kid had a big enough head as it was, but in the too-quiet world of just himself and Eddie, he felt okay admitting it. Once it looked like Eddie was settled in, Steve sat on the edge of his bed, feeling as he always did, like a stranger in his own home.

“When did you last get some shut-eye, boy wonder?” Eddie asked, his foot tucking beneath Steve’s thigh.

Friday. What day was it? Sunday. Not good.

“Well, come on then, don’t make a guy beg. Lay down, Steve. It’s your bed. I could sleep in the spare room if it’s a problem.” There was something cautious about the offer Steve didn’t understand.

He flopped down beside Eddie, so close the two shared a pillow. It changed the shape of the thing. It made the familiar strange.

“You know, I had this dream last night,” Eddie began, his dark eyes still open, glued to the ceiling. He cringed, knowing all the ways dreams could go bad, but Eddie shook his head.

“Not that kind of dream,” He insisted, his hands balling into fists on the bedsheets.

“I had a dream I was a pinball machine,” the boy stated plainly. The absurdity of the statement shocked a laugh out of Steve.

“These painkillers are legit, Harrington,” Eddie spoke, shooting Steve a sidelong glance.

“What kind of pinball machine?”

“You know the Centaur one? It’s black and white, mostly. The arts got this topless guy who’s half man, half motorbike,” Eddie explained.

Steve had no idea what he was saying, but it was nice to hear him talk.

“Wait, if you were the pinball machine, how did you know what you looked like?”

“Great question Steven. I’ve got no clue. Dream logic,” Eddie reasoned.

Steve screwed up his nose at the use of his full name. Only his dad called him Steven. Eddie raised a brow, seeming to take note. One of them had shifted closer. Steve wasn’t sure who. Eddie’s hand brushed against his side as he played with the sheets.

“Remind me again why I needed to know about your pinball dream?” Steve asked. The sound of the wind in the trees outside his bedroom window set his teeth on edge.

“Because you’re too damn serious and I thought it’d make you smile... Which it did.” Eddie added the last part in quietly and Steve rolled his eyes.

Eddie craned his head to look around Steve’s room before screwing up his nose.

“Anyone ever told you your wallpaper is gaudy as hell? Your curtains match your walls. Dude, I thought rich people were meant to have taste,” he observed, the boys’ shoulders pressed together.

“This coming from the guy who eats cereal out of the box with his hands,” Steve countered, no heat in his voice.

“Are you still mad I used to stand on your lunch table?” Eddie muttered, shoving Steve’s shoulder before tensing. When had Steve last checked his dressings?

He flipped the bedside lamp on, leaning over Eddie to do so. He’d been helping the guy shower for days now. Privacy was a word reserved for other people. Intimacy was a necessity.

“Once you stood in my mashed potatoes. It was disgusting,” Steve uttered, gently peeling up the hem of Eddie’s tee shirt. Really, it was Steve’s, but it seemed strange to make distinctions.

Eddie’s eyes trailed down to Steve’s fingers, half-hooded and slowed with sleep or inebriation, Steve didn’t know which. He wondered how much of all this Eddie would remember when he got better. He would get better.

“You never ate the potatoes. You’d bring your stupid bagels from home,” Eddie remarked, as Steve carefully unwound the bandage and gauze. It was stained brown with dried blood, but it looked better than it’d been a few days before, no longer as red or swollen.

The bagel comment made Steve look up. Seemed like Robin wasn’t the only one that’d been watching him. Maybe Eddie had a crush on Tammy Thompson, too. Maybe it was something else. Steve’s friends had crappy taste in women. Eddie could do better.

“What’s the verdict, doc?” Eddie questioned, noticing Steve’s sudden silence.

He cleaned the wounds as best he could. Eddie’s fingers had found their way to Steve’s thigh, gripping so tight he thought it would bruise. It would be another to add to the collection. Steve hadn’t been thinking of how his battle wounds were healing. He was in triage mode. Eddie’s wounds were worse than his.

“We're going to have to amputate,” Steve deadpanned as he found the first aid kit he’d hidden beneath his bed years before, starting to redress the wound.

“How the hell can you amputate a side?” Eddie asked with a shaky laugh, his breathing more ragged again.

“Well, you see, there’s this new experimental procedure that lets you transplant your brain into a pinball machine,” Steve began and felt Eddie’s elbow in his side.

“Screw you.”

Steve laid back beside Eddie, less space between them than before, if it was at all possible. They braced against each other, the contact grounding Steve. Eddie was alive. He was alive. Maybe one day they could look at each other and not think about death. That day wasn’t today, but Steve could hope for it.

As Eddie drifted to sleep, his head fell on Steve’s shoulder. He wouldn’t sleep for long that night, but he was used to that. He knew the weeks and months after a run-in with the Upside Down were full of fitful sleep and nightmares, but they never lasted.

On a long enough timeline, you could get used to anything. It was strange how short that timeline was when it came to getting used to Eddie.

More days came and went with the same imperfect routines. The two boys woke at all hours of the night and spent the daylight hours behind closed curtains, trying to heal.

By the third day, Steve got sick of the quiet. A sombre mood hung over them, shifting and changing like the phases of the moon. It never entirely disappeared, but there were moments it seemed almost absent.

One of these such moments arose when Steve hijacked the boombox from the living room and dragged it upstairs to his bedroom, where a slowly healing Eddie sat bored out of his mind, aching and itchy. Steve knew the feeling. The wound on his neck had scabbed and begun to fade into a scar.

“Hey, Munson?” Steve spoke, sitting beside Eddie, spreading his tape collection between them.

“You wanna hear some real music?” He asked, watching Eddie’s nose scrunch and his teeth worry away at his bottom lip.

“These are all horrible, Harrington.”

Eddie turned over several cassettes in his hand, treating them gently as though they were something special.

“You have every WHAM! album, dude. The Outfield. Halls & Oats. Tears for Fears,” Eddie listed off, his tone one of disgust.

“You’re going to have to pick something, or I’ll pick WHAM! out of spite.”

Eddie rolled his eyes and shuffled through the tapes, tossing one Steve’s way.

“Bowie isn’t horrible,” Eddie mumbled as Steve placed The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, into the player.

The two sat shoulder to shoulder, as always, listening to the quiet swell of drums. Steve realised too late it was a song about the end of the world. He realised, later still, that it was a love song. Eddie’s fingers drummed against his knee. Steve tried to ignore the way the action made his heart swell.

Steve couldn’t sit still any longer as Moonaged Daydream began. He remembered another life in Nancy Wheeler’s garage, asking her to pretend things were normal for a couple of hours. God, he wanted that. He needed a few normal hours.

He wasn’t the same person he’d been back then, but parts of him had stayed the same. He didn’t know how to change them. Nancy Wheeler faced problems head-on, but Steve? The passage of time had taught him how to stand his ground in the face of danger, but he hadn’t yet learned how to stop being chased.

He caught Eddie’s eye and watched as a wicked grin spread across his face. Without words, he knew exactly what Steve was about to do. He grabbed the nail bat he kept by the bed, the same one from the Wheeler’s garage and sang, using the gnarly weapon as his makeshift microphone. He was a little too loud and a little off-tune. He sang about alligators and space invaders, lyrics he knew off by heart, without understanding them.

He watched as a grin threatened to crack Eddie’s face in two. There was a reckless abandon to his smile. It was different from the glazed-eyed, half-high smiles of the past week. His eyes were keen and sharp as he watched Steve fling himself across the room in the way only someone who’d learned to dance drunk could.

By the time the album finished, he’d worked up a sweat. Eddie joined in, singing a couple of lines when he could before tugging Steve back to bed, his hand in Steve’s hair, smoothing it back in place. The action was intimate, yet familiar.

“Alright, Starman. Maybe Bowie doesn’t suck so hard, but when I’m not on the run from the law, I’m going to show you what real music sounds like.”

“Promise?” Steve asked, his chest heaving.

Then, Eddie did something so unlike anything the populous of Hawkins would expect. To them, he was a Satanist and a murderer. Steve had always known better, but he’d seen Eddie as a wildcard. He was loud and rough around the edges, but he also had the capability of being endearing when the moment called for it. Still, Steve had never expected Eddie to roll over, extend his pinkie and link their little fingers together.

“I promise,” He assured, placing his lips to the knuckle of his thumb as though sealing the deal.

The action was equal parts childlike and intense. Steve looked down at their interlaced fingers and knew he was in over his head. Warmth pooled in Steve’s fingertips.

“Eds, I—,” A knock at the downstairs door made the words die on Steve’s lips. The boys pulled apart. Steve was cold.

“I’ll get it,” Steve spoke, picking up the discarded nail bat and trudging down the stairs.

He hoped it was one of the door-knocking jocks. Some primal part of him felt like hitting something. Years before, he would have questioned if he was the kind of person who could do it, but now he knew he could.

Steve clutched at the bat hidden behind his back as he swung open the door, coming face-to-face with an older man dressed in too-short jean shorts, holding an armful of paper bags. He looked familiar. He’d seen the man with Hopper. A furrow etched its way onto his brow.

“Aren’t you going to let your beloved uncle in, Steve?” The man spoke, loud enough for the people in the next neighbourhood to hear.

“Right,” Steve mumbled, pushing the door open and stepping to the side.

The man walked through the house as though he’d grown up within their walls, dropping the paper bags on the countertop, switching on the lights and examining the space.

“Hopper sent me with supplies. It’d draw too much attention having the feds at your front door, but a visit from your favourite Uncle Murray? That’s incognito. I’ve got groceries and painkillers, slipped in some vodka too, on the house. Personally, I was thinking of making my homemade ravioli for dinner. Trust me, it’s to die for. Where’s the other one by the way?” The man, Murray, breathed, spinning on his heels to examine the interior of the house. Steve let his nail bat fall to the floor.

“You really should invest in a gun, kid...Was I interrupting something?” The older man asked, gesturing absentmindedly to his balding head. Steve touched his hair and found it still out of place. He ran his fingers through it in an attempt to tame it.

“No, we... I was sleeping. Eddie’s upstairs. I think he’s okay, but I could use another set of eyes. I don’t know exactly what I’m doing here. Are you staying?”

“I’m just staying for dinner. It’d look strange if your uncle only showed up for a few minutes, wouldn’t it?” Steve didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“There’s the man of the hour,” Murray spoke, glancing up at the top of the staircase where Eddie stood, leaning heavily on the banister.

“What happened to staying up there?” Steve spoke through gritted teeth, making his way back up the stairs.

“You were taking too long,” Eddie muttered with an unbothered shrug.

“And if it’d been one of Jason’s asshole friends, we’d have been screwed,” Steve rebutted, letting Eddie lean on him as they made their way to Murray in the kitchen. At least he could walk.

“But it wasn’t,” Eddie huffed, his breath warm on Steve’s neck.

Steve kicked out one of the kitchen chairs and lowered Eddie into it. The older man watched them as a scientist observes a specimen. There was a morbid fascination to it.

“I see you two are getting along well,” He spoke.

He’d found where Steve’s mother had stored their pots and had begun some strange kitchen alchemy. Steve had made risotto. This guy looked like he was completing a summoning ritual. The ingredients were splayed out on the countertop like objects of adoration.

Steve sat down in the chair beside Eddie. It felt strange having someone else in the house. For what seemed like a lifetime, his world had consisted of one other person. He missed Robin, Dustin, and the rest of the kids, but he hadn’t let himself dwell on it. He’d known their isolation couldn’t last forever, but he’d never have guessed Murray would be the first person he’d see.

“Tense mood. Why is it I always end up in the middle of couples in denial?” Murray breathed to himself.

Eddie’s head snapped up with a speed Steve hadn’t seen him manage all week. Steve didn’t look at Murray, he was too busy trying to unpick the pained look on Eddie’s face. His eyes searched the boy’s body for some torn open wound he’d missed.

“What? Don’t look so surprised. Contrary to what kids these days think, we did have homosexuality in the sixties,” Murray informed before pausing. He gave Steve a once-over that made his skin crawl. He felt as though he were a bug, pinned beneath a glass plate.

“And bisexuality,” He clarified.

Steve averted his eyes and reached over to squeeze Eddie’s knee. He was hopelessly lost in the conversation, but he knew something was wrong with Eddie. The boy jumped at the sudden contact and Steve pulled his hand away as though burnt.

“So, what’s the problem? Still in denial?” Murray asked, levelling Steve with a knowing look. He scowled back at the man, ready for him to leave.

“No. I think you know how you feel, maybe even how he feels.” Steve didn’t know how to respond.

“You, however,” Murray continued, turning his attention to Eddie, the boiling pot on the stove, forgotten.

“I don’t think you have a clue. Self-esteem issues, maybe. You try to hide it, but you couldn’t imagine that someone in a house like this would look at you twice.”

“What the hell, man?” Eddie breathed with a huff of indignation. Murray showed no signs of stopping. His eyes were back on Steve.

“So, what’s holding you back? You got your heart broken after Nancy Wheeler. Let me guess, you keep saying how much you want commitment, but you keep dating the wrong people, people who don’t want to be tied down. That, my boy, is self-sabotage and him,” Murray spoke, indicating Eddie with a wooden spoon he’d been using to stir the rice.

“He looks like a long-haul kind of guy.”

“Dude,” Eddie interjected.

“What? You’re both obviously attracted to one another. Don’t lie. I have eyes. You’re telling me that all this near-death stuff hasn’t made you re-evaluate your life a little? It’s just been you two, locked away together at the end of the world, helping each other heal. Seeking comfort in one another. You’ve got shared trauma. That kind of thing bonds you for life.”

“Leave it alone,” Steve said, standing as he spoke. The chair scraped on the tile floor. A nails on a chalkboard kind of sound.

Steve pushed past the older man, pulled the pot off the stove, and let a tense silence settle over the three of them. The subsequent dinner dragged on in uncomfortable silence. Steve and Eddie kept their eyes glued to their plates. Murray talked but neither paid attention. He gave Eddie’s wounds a once over, appearing as lost as Steve. He didn’t seem concerned, so Steve took it as a good thing.

He thought he’d known what tense silence between himself, and Eddie felt like, but he’d known nothing compared to the moment Murray left. His whole body was on edge. Eddie wouldn’t meet his eyes. They needed to talk, but neither wanted to be the first to cave.

“I was thinking of turning in early,” Steve spoke, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah. Me too.”

The boys lay side by side, but sleep didn’t come. Eddie’s body was wound tight as a tourniquet. This time, Steve was the one bleeding out.

He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. Maybe that he was sorry. Murray was right. Steve had known Eddie liked him and he hadn’t said anything because it wasn’t a problem he could throw himself in front of. It’d be easier if he thought telling Eddie would end up with him getting hit. There were worse things.

Eddie’s feelings had become more apparent as their time together wore on, but on some level, Steve had known long before. When Eddie had leaned over into his space smelling of cigarette ash, dried earth and sweat and called Steve some god-awful pet name, he’d known. He also knew the feelings weren’t one-sided.

That revelation came later. Eddie had been fading in and out of consciousness. Steve had shaken him awake to redress his wounds when it happened. The boy awoke, shooting him a lopsided grin, gazing at Steve with his drowsy, doe eyes.

He’d crooned, ‘Good morning sunshine’. And that had been enough.

Steve’s heart had stuttered to a halt as it had all the times before when a pretty girl had called him a prettier name.

As much as Steve hated to admit it, Murray had been right about a lot of things. There was one thing Steve desperately wanted him to be wrong about.

He and Eddie were bonded because of what they’d been through. That’s what the man had said. Shared trauma. Was that all they were?

Steve was back in the bathroom with Nancy, her white shirt, red. The whites of his eyes the moment she left, red.

He knew where shared trauma got him. He’d try to bury it. To move past it. He wanted to be more than what was done to him. People would say he was running. He was bullshit.

How was he meant to sit with the kind of stuff he and Eddie had been through? How was he meant to fight it? Would Steve always look at Eddie and see his death? Would Eddie always look at Steve and feel like dying?

“I wished I’d met you later,” Steve spoke to the dark room. Eddie’s locked body loosened, and as it did, he started to shake. In a moment, he’d start to bleed too.

“You know, normally people say they wished they’d met you sooner.”

“I mean... I wish we’d met after everything with The Upside Down. That you hadn’t gotten dragged into it. I wish that we’d gotten to know each other the normal way,” Steve explained. Eddie snorted.

“Can you imagine me doing anything the normal way?” He had a point.

Steve didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say. The silence was back, looming large as a lunar eclipse.

“You aren’t... weirded out by what he said? About me liking you?” Eddie’s voice was small. The only time Steve heard Eddie whisper was when he was dying.

“I think he also said something about me liking you back,” Steve replied, glancing at Eddie’s profile only to find the man was already watching him. His face was contorted in confusion.

“Then... what’s the problem here, Stevie?”

Steve had never been good with his words.

“What if we’ve ruined it?” He tried. At seeing a frown cross Eddie’s face, he knew he hadn’t done a good enough job at explaining.

“With what’s happened between me and you. You never would’ve looked at me twice if I hadn’t saved you, and what if that’s all we’ve got? Shared trauma.”

Bullshit. What if all they had was bullshit? Eddie finally understood.

“I don’t like you because you saved me, Steve. I like you because despite all the terrible shit you make me want to laugh. I love that you’re shit at dancing, but you do it anyway. Also, screw that guy your risotto is better than his. You’re a good cook. Your stupid hair makes me want to slam my head in a car door and before you say anything, that’s a compliment. You care so damn much about everyone.” To Steve’s surprise, Eddie’s hand reached up to touch his cheek.

“I don’t like you because we’ve been through bad shit together. I like you because you make me feel like one day, we’re going to get out on the other side of it, that things aren’t going to be like this forever,” Eddie finished.

Steve’s heart was a cardinal, beating itself bloody against a windowpane.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve breathed. For the first time in a long time, he was nervous.

Eddie’s smile was a lightning strike, bright, beautiful and something they’d shape gods after.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Eddie’s lips were warm.

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bucca2 · 9 months

Text

Shrike pt. 2 - always a well dressed fraud who wouldn’t spare the rod

König x high school sweetheart reader

3rd person, König's perspective, she/her pronouns for reader, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander

4.2k words

tw: child abuse, spousal abuse, graphic descriptions of violence (mostly König’s imagination and violence in the field as a soldier, König’s dad dies pretty gruesomely), car crash

spätzchen = cute/little sparrow. Google Translate will say that means “spit”, but I trust a German reddit user a lot more than I trust Google.

[PREV] [NEXT]

The first time König ever imagined killing someone, he was seven.

He remembers it clearly, one of the earliest memories he has. His father had asked him to hold the hammer as he was installing a shelf, and in a rare moment of childhood whimsy, he was pretending the ball-peen hammer was a little airplane. He was absorbed, making little puttering and vroom noises, absentmindedly waving the hammer around before—

“Fuck!” König drops the hammer at the sharp noise of swearing. He’d accidentally swung it right into his father’s leg.

“You stupid little pest—can’t you hold a goddamn hammer without hitting me with it?” He withers underneath the older man’s glare.

His father picks up the hammer and crouches down, pointing the hammer threateningly in his son’s face. “I should take a swing at you right now to teach you a lesson.”

His mother runs into the room, alerted by the shouting. “Is everything alright?”

“Would I be yelling if nothing were the matter?” His father sneers. “Our son’s a dimwit. Can’t hold a hammer without smashing me in the shin with it.”

“He’s still just a boy,” König’s mother says, placing a soothing hand on her son’s head and swiftly moving to block him from his father. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“We’ve been too soft on him, that’s what it is.” His mother swallows hard, and an instinctual, almost primal panic rises in him.

“It was an accident, I’m sure,” she says, trying to calm the temper of the monster in front of her. “Alexander, you’ll say you’re sorry, won’t you?”

“Don’t speak for him! He’ll never become a man like that. Why are you always getting in my fucking way?” He wants to leave. He wants to grab his mother’s hand and run, because the increasing venom in his father’s voice surely cannot mean anything good.

“I didn’t mean—” It happens so quickly that König barely understands what’s just happened, but suddenly his mother is on the floor, and his father is looming over him like an evil spectre.

“Next time, you’ll be the one I’m knocking flat,” he threatens. He stalks out of the room, throwing the hammer onto the floor with a loud thump that echoes the pounding of König’s heart.

“Mama?” He quickly shuffles over to his mother.

“I’m alright, spätzchen,” she says, wincing as she sits up. “We’ll just have to be more careful when we play around with heavy tools, yes?” Her hand is gentle as it smooths over his hair.

“Yes, mama,” he whispers.

That night, he lays awake in bed, staring at the water spot on his ceiling. But instead of imagining sheep, he imagines splatterings of blood. Covering the walls and floor, reaching even the ceiling, as he smashes his father in the face with the hammer over and over again. Until König can no longer see his venomous expression. Until his father can never hurt Mama again.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“So…should I call you ‘your majesty’ now?” she asks, nudging him playfully. (The way she used to, but if he thinks about the tingles it sent through him back then his brain will fill with static.)

He lets out a huff that’s sort of a laugh. “Don’t be silly. Most of the people I work with don’t speak German, so König is like a name to them. I don’t tell people my name.”

“Hmm…I like the sound of my king,” she muses.

He’s so glad she can’t see him blushing. He feels like a high schooler all over again.

“Is that why you wear the hood?”

“Hmm?”

“Because you don’t want people to know your identity?”

“In the field, yes. It would be dangerous otherwise. I do a lot of work with terrorist cells.”

“Isn’t it frightening to do that kind of work? Having to come face-to-face with people like that?”

“I have met some frightening people.” He watches as she turns and meets his gaze, reveling in the heat that spreads across her cheeks. “But they also met me.”

She stares at him with an admiration that steals his breath away. It’s a bit new for him. He’s spent a long time nurturing a persona that makes people look at him in either fear or disgust. Or not look at him at all.

“You’re different,” she muses. “You’re so…confident.”

“Arrogant, you mean?” He chuckles as she visibly panics. “I’m good at what I do, rosethorn.”

“There’s a lot of things you’ve gotten good at,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“Talking. Looking at me when you speak.”

“I think everybody gets better at that as they grow up.”

“I got worse at it. It’s just a lot. I look at people and start thinking about everything that could go wrong, or all the ways I could upset them.”

She describes a sensation as familiar to him as the flutter of his hood around his face. It’s never really gone away, no matter how competent and cocky he gets. What is new to him is her feeling that way.

He hates seeing her like this. She startles. She flinches. She feels smaller: not physically, but her presence has shrunk. He wants to wring the neck of whoever has made her into this timid creature.

“The mask scared me when I first saw it at the checkpoint. But I don’t mind it now if that makes sense? It makes me feel more at ease.”

“You may be the only person who feels that way. I don’t exactly look very cuddly.”

That draws a laugh out of her, albeit a small one. He’d forgotten how much he liked the sound.

“That’s because when someone doesn’t know what your face looks like, it frightens them. It doesn’t bother me.”

“You know what I look like, though.”

“As a teenager. I don’t know what you look like as a man.”

“Not much different. Maybe a more chiselled jaw.”

She snorts. “Are you going to show me?”

“You might not like what you see.”

“You said you didn’t look much different.”

“As a younger man, no. I…have a lot of scars now. It’s not nice to look at.”

He thinks about their last meeting a lot. For a few years he just couldn’t stop tormenting himself with the memory. He had spent all that time scared of his own feelings, petrified of saying or doing anything about it. And when he had finally worked up the nerve to stop being a fucking coward, all he did was hold her hand. Their last day together, and that was as much as he could muster.

He's thinking about it now as she slides her hand over his, just the way he did all those years ago. She’s thinking about it too, by the look in her eye as she squeezes his hand.

“I wouldn’t mind. But I won’t force you to take it off. Not until you’re ready.”

She waited for him to become comfortable enough then, and she would still wait for him now, he realizes. All his worries about not being able to pick back up where they last ended vanish—that she would be afraid of him. That she would be closed off, or that it would feel irreparably different between them. But being with her feels as natural as the press of his knife’s hilt in his palm.

He hasn’t lost his chance. And this time, he will not lose her again.

Blood. Viscera. The clean slice of a blade as it splits open a throat. The light dying in a felled enemy’s eyes. For most soldiers, these are repulsive aspects of the job. The worst, but most inescapable part. The dirty work.

For König, they’re the highlight of the job.

As a child, he could never punch back, never return an insult, never fight. If he got in any trouble, there would be a greater hell to pay back home. After a while, he became numb to whatever punishment his father sought for his crimes. It was his mother’s reaction he could never stand—her sadness. Her disappointment. Her worry.

So he sat and stewed. The bullies who called him names and mocked his silence were powerless before him in his mind. He imagined crushing the bones in their hands under his foot, caving their heads in with a rock, stabbing them over and over again with a serrated knife that tore their guts out and severed their tendons.

König had special plans for his father that grew more elaborate with every fresh abuse the man inflicted on him. First, he would break the man’s legs. Then, he’d shatter each of the fingers with a hammer. He’d begin the main event by kicking him in the stomach, kneeing him in the junk and hearing him howl in pain. Then he would bring out a knife—it changed over the years from a kitchen knife, to various switchblades, to the trusty field knife he keeps on him at all times now. He’d start by outlining the lips his father used to shout and swear and degrade, then moving along his cheek to his temple, dancing the blade all along the edges of his face before peeling the skin away—

He had a brief flash of fear on his first true deployment. Imagining intense violence is much different than experiencing it firsthand. Stories of recruits vomiting, fainting, losing their minds and needing to be restrained in the middle of a firefight haunted him as he stood in front of a door, moments before kicking it down.

His first kill was like a revelation. Watching the man fall to the ground, a gaping hole in his forehead, his gun still smoking from the shot. It was as satisfying as it had always felt in his imagination. His first takedown with a knife was even better—the brief struggle, the spray of blood, the slow jerking before limpness made his enemy into a corpse. König knows his way around guns, for sure, but knives were different. Graceful, soundless, elegant.

Hands-on.

He’s not some mindless serial killer, of course. The kill is only half the fun. The vicious satisfaction of justice is what really does it for him. He flourishes taking down human trafficking cells, ending the lives of vile animals who take and use and destroy. In every woman he rescues, he sees his mother, bound to a terrible life. In every child, he sees himself, helpless in the face of unimaginable cruelty.

In every kill, he sees his rosethorn, felling a bully in one blow. That one image, like a painting framed in the museum of his mind, fuels his every move, provides his purpose. She becomes his guiding star, haloed in light and bathed in the blood of unworthy men. Every trafficker, every terrorist, every drug kingpin taken down is his tribute to her, impaled upon the hedgerow thorns as evidence of his devotion.

That’s why it’s so devastating to return home and find her gone. He had wanted to come back as someone he was proud of being around her. Someone tall and strong, someone actually worthy of holding her hand. But she’s not here, and her parents are nervous, hesitant to tell him anything about her. Of course, he thinks with bitterness as he wishes them well and turns to leave. What was he to their daughter, anyway? Just some snivelling boy she went to school with.

That bitterness grows like a seed in him as he makes his way home. His mother’s out, which means his father is in a nasty mood. Like he always is when there’s nobody around to wait on him hand and foot. He’s standing in the kitchen waiting for König when he returns home from visiting Thorn’s parents.

“Where the fuck have you been? Just got back and already running out on us.” Being an asshole comes as naturally as breathing to this man. König doesn’t dignify him with a response to his inquiry.

Not that his father cared to know, anyway. “I need to get to Ben’s house. You’re driving me.”

König resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ben is his father’s gambling buddy. He’s probably keen to know how his latest bet panned out. Just another entry on the long list of his dirtbag sperm donor’s unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“Drive yourself.”

“I didn’t teach you to drive for you to disrespect me like this. You’re going to drive me.”

He went through a phase when he was a fresh recruit of constantly defying his father. Now that he was too big, too skilled to be hit, he didn’t have to listen to the old bastard, he thought.

He should have known better. His mother never said a word, but he realized how reckless and inconsiderate he had been when she flinched as he hugged her one day. The bruises were all up and down her ribs.

That evil old arschloch always did know how to get his way in the end.

Ten minutes later, he’s behind the wheel, absorbed in thoughts about Thorn. Where had she gone? Why did she leave? She was so smart, he knows she could have gone to university. Did she go abroad? Is that truck about to crash into them?

He jolts to attention. That truck is about to crash into them.

The moments right before an accident are often described as moving in slow motion, but it doesn’t go that way for König. He’s just barely got enough time to jerk the steering wheel hard before impact. The collision sends the car off the side of the road, rolling over and over again until it comes to a halt against a tree.

Maybe it’s because he’s been in more dangerous situations than this, but he finds his mind unusually calm as he assesses himself for injuries, his head throbbing. He got lucky—he’s banged-up and covered in scratches from broken glass, but his limbs all seem functional, and his spine appears to be intact. He may have a concussion, but that’s not the most pressing concern right now.

The metal groans as he pulls himself free, coughing from the fumes. Fuck. It’s on fire. He needs to put distance between himself and the wreck before it explodes. He’s just managed to haul himself to his feet when he hears the angry bellow.

Goddammit. He’d forgotten about the Krampus sitting next to him.

He manages to pick his way to the other side of the car, where his father is fully pinned underneath the wreckage. It’s bad—his legs are twisted in a way König has only seen once in his line of work (that time, it had been an entire building falling on someone), and the frame of the car has come just shy of cutting him clean in half.

“Get me the fuck out of here!” His father growls. König instinctively moves towards him to help when a thought occurs to him.

He’s dreamed about murdering his father countless times, but he’s always known it was a bad idea. There was no guarantee he’d get away with it, and if he got locked up for murder, he might never get to see Thorn again. Not to mention the heartbreak it would have caused his mother. So day after day, year after year, he had stewed with no end in sight, waiting on Father Time to get his shit sorted.

But now here is an opportunity. His opportunity to get rid of his father once and for all, with no blood on his hands. Well, none that anybody else will know about.

He watches, like a passive observer in his own body, as he steps away from his father, arms retreating to his sides. His father spits and curses and finally resorts to begging, but König just stands, all sound distorted as if his head is underwater. Staring into the face of the man who has tormented him all his life.

It all floods his mind, every violent thought he’s ever cultivated against him, every gory fantasy that carried him to sleep. It savors of anticlimax, watching him burn to death through no direct action of König’s. And yet, he feels peaceful.

He sees him now for the pathetic old man he is. In an instant, he is no longer the monster down the hall, the boogeyman in his home. He only sees a pitiful animal, fruitlessly fighting its demise.

He would never have changed. König knows this—he realized it a long time ago. The only way to free himself and his mother from this evil is to purge it completely from this earth. This is the truth he knows now, after years of ending the lives of countless abusers in the field.

His father is slowing down now, the smoke choking him and silencing him. König pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. They’re smashed, but he finds one perfect stick and pulls it out.

He holds the end of it to the flames ripping through the interior of the car to light it and walks away to wait.

It’s hard to not intervene. He won’t be stationed here for much longer, and the idea of leaving his guardian angel to return to her own personal hell every day twists his stomach into knots. But as she respects his privacy, he respects hers.

It’s a bright and sunny day when she admits her husband is abusive.

“I swear, I’ll never forget the look on his face. He didn’t bother me after that, and I was never partnered with him again until he was transferred to some other division.” König’s regaling her with a tale of a fellow recruit who fucked around and found out.

“His loss.”

“Don’t I know it,” he says with a lazy chuckle.

She leans her hand on her chin, looking up at him through her lashes. “You are so charming, you know that? Makes me jealous of all the other girls you’ve practiced that charm on.”

There weren’t a lot. None of them were you, he thinks before responding.

“Don’t let your husband hear you say that.” He meant that lightheartedly, but the word husband comes out with a hard edge to it.

“Maybe then he’d know what it feels like,” she mutters. He watches her visibly stiffen as she realizes she’s just said that out loud.

It’s like an entire conversation is had without either of them making a sound. He knows what she meant. She knows he knows. An awful truth that sits between them like a noxious gas.

“…won’t you tell me about it?” That’s another thing that hurts him and pisses him off. She doesn’t talk the same way as when they were young: it’s difficult to draw conversation out of her now. He’s not used to talking more than she does.

“I don’t want to worry you.”

He scoffs. “Too late for that.”

“I just don’t like to talk about it.” She’s fidgeting with her hands. She never did that before.

“I want to help you.”

Shit. Should he not have said that? She looks off into the distance when he does, like she wishes she were somewhere else. Is she mad at him? Is he imposing? Is she going to close herself off?

“I don’t know that you could,” she says, and he relaxes. Well, as much as he can when the woman he’s lived his entire adult life for tells him that he can’t help her.

“I can listen to you, at least.”

They’ve spent so many years apart, so many developmental stages of their lives traversed without the other. First kiss. First car. Graduations. Promotions. There should be a certain kind of distance between them, ice that needs to thaw. They’ve changed, that’s undeniable, and there’s plenty of time for them to explore those changes later (he hopes).

But all of that melts away the moment she leans her head on his shoulder. He’s so nervous that he’s conscious of his breathing.

“It hasn’t been…a good marriage,” she says, forcing the words out. “He wasn’t faithful. But…I loved him. So I stayed. I thought I could salvage things.”

Something ugly rears its head inside him when she says I loved him. It bothers him that she’s not talking about him when she says that. But what right does he have to feel that way? When he spent so long fucking around and not being there to protect her?

“When he said we were moving here, I thought it would give me an opportunity to leave him but…that hasn’t happened.”

“Why not?” She could do anything she wanted to, he thinks.

“I…I don’t have anything other than him,” she whispers, almost shamefully. “My parents are retired, I’m stuck in a foreign country, and I have no career prospects. I’m stuck.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then thinks better of it.

“I’m also just…tired. I’m so tired.” Her voice is soft, defeated. “Some days I alternate between wanting to think for myself and needing someone else to do it for me.”

“You can’t stay here, rosethorn.”

“I don’t know what else I can do. I don’t have anything or anyone.”

“You have me.”

She looks at him, sweet and hopeful and with a vulnerability he craves. This is it. His whole life, his entire career, has led to this moment. Finally, he can do something for the person who gave him everything.

“Come back home with me. I have a house in Vienna. You could visit your parents whenever you wanted.”

She looks hesitant. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“Never,” he says, too forcefully. He adjusts his tone to be gentler. “Let me do this for you.”

Her expression looks conflicted. “I know I can trust you. But I just can’t bring myself to rely on another person so fully like that so soon. I need to do my own thing…figure some things out for myself.”

Shit. He didn’t consider this, but she’s right. He watched his mother depend on an abusive monster all his life, not just for her own sake, but to keep a roof over her son’s head and food in his stomach. She would have left his father, if only she had been able to. She was like a new woman after the accident—free to do as she liked, when she liked, without having to care for or appease someone else.

“I’ll pay you,” he blurts out, surprising even himself. She looks at him in confusion.

“For what?”

“I’m deployed for weeks or months at a time. I need someone to live in the house, take care of it. Make sure it’s not slowly developing black mold or a roach infestation, because I sure as hell wouldn’t know.” He’s a fucking genius.

She seems to mull it over for a moment. “I think…I’d like that. I haven’t been to Vienna since I was a child.”

He loves watching her think, a look of concentration on her face that makes her look so cute, but also so intelligent. The gears are turning in her head.

“I would just have to divorce him. But he’s not going to like that.”

“I’ll help you get back home and stay with your parents before you serve the papers,” he quickly offers. “That way it’ll be harder for him to try anything. When I’m done here, I’ll join you.” She doesn’t know that her husband will never get the chance to try anything. König will make sure of it. He just needs her out of the house her husband lives in.

She looks at him and really, truly smiles. Oh, her smile. Her smile, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. Her eyes crinkle, her cheeks flush, her whole face radiates warmth. Yes, he thinks. Any length he goes to is worth it if he can draw this out of her every day for the rest of his life.

“It might happen quickly…within the next day or two,” she says. “I don’t have a lot to pack, and I don’t want him to get suspicious.”

“Good idea. I’ll book travel immediately.” It’s all falling into place now. He’s so close to having what he’s been dreaming about for so long, he can taste it.

“Thank you, Alexander.” He looks at her and sees a renewed resolve in her. This is the rosethorn he remembers. This is the woman he loves.

Love is more than a piece of paper, König knows. His parents had the paper, but if there had been any love, it was long gone by the time König was a child. No, love is devotion and protection. König knows how to love her. And he knows that another piece of paper will not set her free. Only he can do that.

"Bucca, why is there German in italics if they're speaking German the whole time?" because I felt like it, okay? I use asshole too much to describe his dad, so I need to spice it up. also, spätzchen is a cute (and thematically appropriate) nickname.

sorry this took so long! like I mentioned in a separate post, I had the entire rest of the story plotted out pretty early after finishing the first chapter, but I was busy all week and ended up changing the structure of this chapter and removing some things. I hope this meets expectations <3 as always, leave me your feedback and corrections! and if you'd like to be on the taglist, please drop a reply! (this also applies if I somehow missed your request to be tagged.)

ps. I saw Hozier tonight. I feel like a different person now. if you want to get a head start on the vibes for the next chapter, listen to Francesca and Who We Are off his new album, Unreal Unearth. I heard both of them live tonight!

taglist: @crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian

#bucca writes #könig #könig x reader #könig cod #könig mw2 #call of duty #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod #mw2 #konig #konig cod #konig x reader #fic:shrike

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esotheria-sims · 2 months

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The nightmarish creature stood squarely before her, blocking her escape. Annika could feel her pulse thumping in her throat - there was nothing normal about that horse! Fixating its eerie, glowing eyes on her, it let out a menacing snort and lowered its head. With a rising sense of panic, Annika realized that it was about to attack.

Instinctively, she drew her sword. As the spectre charged at her, she swung with full force. The blade sliced the creature's snoot, forcing it to abruptly stop. With an angry, bone-chilling neigh, the horse reared up on its hind legs, determined to get the better of the enemy. Annika swung again, taking advantage of the sudden opening to deliver a fatal blow to its chest. Letting out a panicked scream, the creature dropped onto the wet grass, motionless.

Was it really dead? Annika stood there for a while trying to steady her racing pulse. It looked that way, but remembering the tree spirits her father and brother used to fight off back in the day, she knew never to trust a fallen specter. In what she hoped would be the final nail in the horse's coffin, she knelt down and set it ablaze. As extra insurance.

The ease with which it kindled made her hair stand on end. I've had enough of this place, she thought resolutely as she bound for the exit, the blaze of the ghoulish bonfire still flickering in the background.

#sims 2 #ts2 #sims #gameplay #bacc #wyverns bay #wb gameplay #blackbird #blackbird week 4 #annika blackbird #haunted hilltop cemetery #mine

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soulofapatrick · 6 months

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Steadfast Sanctuary - Peeta Mellark x Female Reader

Summary: You have a nightmare and Peeta is there to help you through it

Words: 1.8k

Y/N’s POV

The arena unfurls before me like a macabre canvas, a haunting tapestry of memories etched in pain and survival. The 75th Hunger Games, that unforgiving stage that nearly claimed my existence, manifests once again in vivid hues. My fingers tighten around a makeshift blade, a crude and desperate attempt at defence, carved from a jagged shard of metal.

Cannons echo in the distance, a grim symphony marking the fate of those who dared to seize resources from the cornucopia. Each reverberation pounds against my chest, the rhythmic thud of a heart burdened with the imminent spectre of doom. I falter at the edge of a stagnant pond, its waters a murky mirror reflecting the desolation that surrounds me. The feeble rays of light filtering through the canopy paint a sickly sheen upon its surface.

In an eerie dance, the water coils and rises, a grotesque ballet choreographed by unseen forces. Twisting tendrils form macabre visages, grotesque echoes of fallen tributes—faces contorted in anguish and despair. Their silent screams pierce the air, an icy grip seizing my veins with terror. Desperation propels me to turn away, to flee this haunting spectacle, yet my feet betray me, ensnared in the nightmare's merciless hold.

From the depths emerges a spectral hand, skeletal and ethereal, reaching out with phantom fingers extended—an invitation or a warning, I cannot discern. Its silent plea beckons, a macabre summons to join the chorus of the departed. Horror seizes my senses, a scream clawing its way from the depths of my throat, a cacophony echoing through the desolate terrain.

Abruptly, I’m torn from the clutches of that harrowing vision, gasping for air, drenched in cold sweat. Reality feels tenuous, a delicate thread woven between the tendrils of the dream and the anchor of the present. Peeta's voice pierces through the fog, a distant lighthouse guiding me back to the shores of wakefulness. Struggling against the dream's residue, I attempt to tether myself to the present, to sever the haunting tendrils that cling mercilessly to my senses.

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re safe,” Peeta’s voice, a soothing melody, washes over me. His touch is gentle as he brushes strands of hair from my forehead, a gesture both comforting and grounding. I struggle to anchor myself in the present, to shake off the lingering tendrils to that haunting dreams.

My fingers instinctively seek purchase, clutching at Peeta’s arm as if its the sole lifeline tethering me to reality. His presence is a steadfast anchor amidst the storm of lingering terror. With each word, his voice seems to carve a path through the fog, gradually guiding me away from the haunting remnants of the dreadful dream.

Peeta responds to my struggle with unwavering patience, coaxing me gently to sit upright. The coolness of the room contrasts sharply with the lingering hear of the nightmare, but his touch is a comforting warmth against my skin. His steady guidance helps regulate my breathing, his had a reassuring weight on my back, rising and falling in rhythm with erratic gasps for air.

As I attempt to wrestle free from the tendrils of fear that cow around my consciousness, Peeta’s calm presence remains a beacon of solace. His gaze, a soft azure amidst the shadows, holds a silent promise of safety and understanding.

“Hey, baby, focus on your breath,” He murmurs, his voice a soothing whisper against the chaos in my mind. His hand rests over mine, guiding it gently to his chest, urging me to feel the steady thud of his heart. I press my palm against the comforting rhythm, seeking refuge in the tangible assurance of his existence, a living testament to the present.

In synchrony with his heartbeat, I attempt to steady my own tumultuous rhythm, finding solace in the simple act of feeling his pulse beneath my palm. Peeta's unwavering presence and the reassuring cadence of his heart serve as a lifeline, gently guiding me back to the calm shores of wakefulness.

Peeta makes a move to rise, perhaps intending to give me space or fetch something to soothe the residual tremors of the nightmare, but a sudden surge of panic grips me. Instinctively, I tug at his arm, a silent plea not to leave my side. He hesitates, his eyes reflecting concern and empathy, before heading my unspoken request.

As Peeta hesitates in response to my unspoken plea, I feel a surge of panic, a silent but urgent need for him to stay. His eyes, pools of concern and empathy, seem to comprehend he unspoken turmoil within me. Without a word, his decision is made. With a tender understanding, Peeta shuffles closer, his movements deliberate yet gentle, as though he’s afraid I might break. He eases into the bed beside me, our bodies naturally gravitating towards each other. There’s a subtle, unspoken language in the way we fit together, an effortless dance of limbs finding their perfect place.

As he envelops me in his embrace, I'm cocooned in a warmth that transcends the physical. His arms, a fortress of safety, draw me closer, and I instinctively respond, seeking solace in the proximity of his comforting presence. The faint scent of freshly baked bread still lingers on his skin, a familiar fragrance that intertwines with the essence of safety and home. His breath, a gentle rhythm against my hair, mirrors the steadiness of his heartbeat, both a symphony of reassurance.

In this shared intimacy, I'm reminded of the depth of emotions I harbour for Peeta. The way his mere presence can quell the tempest raging within me reignites a myriad of feelings—gratitude, affection, and a love that had never truly faded, only lay dormant beneath the surface. As we squeeze closer together, his closeness sparks a familiar warmth within me, reigniting a flame that had never truly extinguished. The subtle brush of his skin against mine, the synchronised rise and fall of our breaths, kindles a fire of emotion—a reminder of the bond we share, resilient in the face of trials and nightmares.

Peeta's face, bathed in the soft glow of the room, holds an ethereal quality, a blend of concern and tender reassurance. Without conscious thought, I find myself gently pulling back, yearning to see the familiar contours of his features—the sincerity in his eyes and that gentle curve of his lips.

As I meet his gaze, his eyes, a reflection of concern and unwavering support, seem to hold an unspoken understanding. There's a magnetic pull drawing me to him, an inexplicable need to bridge the gap between us, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath my touch.

My hand rises, guided by an instinct I can't fully comprehend, and caresses the softness of his cheek. His skin is warm beneath my fingertips, a canvas that has weathered its own storms, yet bears a resilience that captivates me. The gentle brush of my thumb over his bottom lip elicits a hitch in his breath, a subtle reaction that sends a shiver through me, awakening a stirring within. Something stirs deep within my chest at the vulnerable tenderness reflected in his eyes. His breath, caught in a moment of anticipation, hangs between us, charged with unspoken emotions. The way his gaze softens, the way his breath hitches at my touch—it's as if the connection between us hums with an unspoken language, a dance of emotions that transcends words.

In the delicate interlude between us, a silent understanding blossoms, an unspoken dialogue that resonates deeper than words could convey. The air crackles with anticipation, a palpable tension that hangs between our shared gaze and the tender brush of my thumb against his lips.

Without warning, Peeta leans in, a gentle yet decisive movement that bridges the last remaining space between us. His lips meet mine in a soft, tender kiss—a gesture brimming with a depth of emotion that transcends the physical realm. It’s a caress, a whisper of reassurance, and an affirmation of something profound that stirs between us. The touch of his lips against mine is a gentle awakening, a surge of emotions that floods my senses. His kiss feels like a delicate embrace, a promise of unwavering support and affection. It's a tender affirmation that I am something valuable, something to be cherished and loved, sparking a warmth that radiates from the depths of my being.

His hands find their place with a tender certainty, one cradling the curve of my cheek with a tenderness that belies the rough calluses and strength beneath. The other settles at the small of my back, a grounding touch that speaks volumes of protection and stability. Despite the softness of his touch, there's a subtle roughness to his hands, a testament to the hardships endured—a reminder of his resilience and determination.

As our kiss lingers, the warmth of his touch and the gentle pressure of his lips convey a myriad of unspoken sentiments. It's an embrace of shared solace, an unspoken promise of standing together amidst the turmoil. In this intimate connection, I feel not just desired but truly seen—a profound validation that ignites a longing for more, a yearning to deepen this unspoken bond that seems to resonate within every fibre of our beings. \

As our kiss softens into a tender embrace, Peeta draws me closer, enveloping me in the warmth of his arms. I lean into the comforting stronghold of his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my cheek—a rhythmic reassurance that anchors me in the present moment.

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to my forehead, a gentle caress that speeds volumes of his unwavering care and affection. It's a silent vow etched in that tender gesture—a promise of steadfast support and enduring presence in the face of whatever challenges lie ahead. With a whisper barely audible, he reassures me, "I'll always be here, for you." His words carry the weight of a solemn pledge, resonating with a depth of sincerity that brings solace to the uncertainties that once lingered.

In the cocoon of his embrace, I find a sanctuary, a haven where vulnerabilities are embraced and fears are gently soothed. The reassurance in his words echoes a profound truth—a comforting reminder that amidst the chaos of our world, I have found a sanctuary in his unwavering presence, a safe harbour in the tempest.

Peeta's promise lingers in the air, a beacon of unwavering support that alleviates the shadows of doubt. In this tender moment, wrapped in the shelter of his arms, I feel a renewed sense of strength and an unspoken resolve to face whatever trials await—knowing that his steadfast devotion will always be a guiding light through the darkest of times.

The Hunger Games Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

#hunger games #the hunger games #catching fire #the mockingjay #Peeta Mellark #Peeta Mellark x reader #Peeta Mellark x you #Peeta Mellark x y/n #Peeta Mellark fluff #Peeta Mellark smut #Peeta Mellark angst #Peeta Mellark hunger games #peeta x reader #Peeta x you #Peeta x y/n #Peeta smut #Peeta fluff #Peeta angst #josh hutcherson

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majosullivan · 9 months

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Since it has been on my mind lately and I’m in the mood to ramble, I present to you: why I believe Lenore’s spectre is going to be a Phoenix/Phoenix themed.

Before I go more deeply into this, I want to cover the most agreed upon detail of Lenore’s possible spectre: Lenore having wings. This really seems like a slam dunk at this point. Lenore so far has had a clear association with birds, specifically ravens; with one of the Poe works she is based on being The Raven, her talking to and seeking out the Raven in Nevermore, the cane we see her using in her and Annabel’s memories having a Raven skull as the handle and her family crest having a pair of black wings a part of its design.

Additionally, there’s also the detail of Nevermore’s logo. Nevermore’s logo is comprised of a beating heart and a pair of black wings. Since Annabel’s spectre has a heart shaped hole in her chest, Lenore’s spectre having wings would make up the rest of the logo, with the logo symbolising our pair of deuteragonists.

Furthermore, there is also the scene with Lenore and The Raven, with him mockingly asking Lenore if she has a pair of wings under her blazer after she tries to stop him from leaving in episode 35.

Honestly, this panel might as well have a massive sign titled ‘FORESHADOWING’ in blinking lights attached to it when we take into account everything that we’ve pointed out. So, while it seems very likely that Lenore will have wings, why do I think she will be a phoenix specifically? With her connections to ravens, surely it make more sense for her to be a raven? Well, this is because of one word: rebirth.

Just to have a quick explanation for the basis, a phoenix is an immortal bird that cyclically regenerates or is otherwise born again. Being associated with the sun, a phoenix obtains new life by rising from the ashes of its predecessor. Some legends say it dies in a show of flames and combustion, others that it simply dies and decomposes before being born again. Throughout the comic, there has been a lot of links to Lenore and the ideas of rebirth. Specifically, there are three examples where Lenore has gone through a death of some form, before being reborn/brought back to life in some form.

The first time we see this after the accident with the tree. With the death of Theo, who was seemingly the only person in Lenore’s life at the time who genuinely cared about her, and being locked away in the attic for years after being deemed as never being able to recover from her injuries, along with her parents no longer seeing her as any respectable use since they wouldn’t be able to marry her off, we see Lenore go through her first ‘death’. Forced to live a lifeless existence hidden away in shame, with her ripping away the wallpaper being the only real change that occurred during her time in the attic. All of this leads into first time Lenore is reborn/brought back to life when she first meets Annabel, which allowed her to be freed from the attic and form a genuine connection with someone in years. Lenore even says so herself, describing Annabel as the one who brought her back to life long before she died.

The second time, and the one that arguably has the most obvious link to the ideas of Phoenixs, is when Lenore faked her death to go after Annabel. Here we see her in the process of disguising herself as a man, before finishing her packing and setting the house on fire so everyone will assume she died in the fire and she can assume her new identity without suspicion. Here, I don’t think I have to go too in-depth to point how through her actions, Lenore arose from the ashes of the house fire as Leo Vandernacht, leaving her life as the disgraced daughter of the Vandernachts to burn away in the house fire, just like a Phoenix arising from the ashes of its predecessor (side note quickly but Lenore I swear to fucking god you better actually have a cousin named Leo or I’m coming through the screen to shake you like a maraca). The parallels here are pretty clean cut.

Finally, we have her actual death and her appearing at Nevermore. While we don’t know the full details behind Lenore’s and Annabel’s deaths, whatever they are only have the possibility to strengthen the links to rebirth that have been clearly shown from the start. The whole conflict in Nevermore is the competition for a new life. With Lenore’s death and her arrival to Nevermore placing her in a competition for a second chance at life, she has once again been placed into a position similar to the cycle of a Phoenix, with this time following closer to legends where a Phoenix simply dies and decomposes before being born again. Additionally, Annabel’s complete faith in Lenore can also fed into this. We see in episode 41, how no matter what awaits them, no matter challenges they have to overcome, Annabel has absolute faith that Lenore will find a way to get them out of Nevermore. Not herself or any complex plan she has, Lenore is the one who will ultimately be the key to their escape. Lenore is the key to their second chance at life, to their rebirth.

Speaking of Annabel, the way she describes Lenore in episode 66 can add onto this line of reasoning. During the episode, we see Annabel describe Lenore as ‘ash the moment we met’, before going on to talk about how all madwoman die at least twice. First off, describing Lenore as ash already brings her back to the idea of being a Phoenix, with Pheonix rising from the dead through the ashes of predecessor. Secondly, the idea of all madwomen dying at least twice in relation to Lenore is yet another link to the concept of a Phoenix, with them going through multiple deaths in their cycle of rebirth.

To focus on some of the smaller details, the colours associated with Lenore can also strengthen the idea of Lenore’s spectre being Phoenix themed as well. As we all know well at this point, in very Romeo and Juliet fashion, Annabel and Lenore have clear colours associated to them, with Annabel often dressing in blue, in addition to other cold colours, while Lenore often dresses in reds, in addition to other warm colours. Considering this and Lenore’s already clear association to fire, like Lenore’s spectre having wings, it seems likely that Lenore’s spectre will also have fire powers. Now, what is something that has wings and it linked to fires? That’s right, a Phoenix. This small point can be strengthen by what we know about Annabel’s spectre. Annabel’s spectre is freezing to the touch, which matches up with the colours associated to her. Since White Raven’s spectres are definitely going to parallel each other, this detail increases the possibility of Lenore’s spectre having fire based abilities, and as a result, increases the possibility of Lenore being a Phoenix.

While there are still loads of other ideas about what Lenore’s spectre will be going around, to me at least, Lenore’s spectre being at least Phoenix themed is definitely the strongest theory I’ve seen so far. If anyone else has any other ideas about what Lenore’s spectre will be, or if you have any other evidence supporting the idea that Lenore will be Phoenix themed, I would love to hear it!

#nevermore #webtoon nevermore #nevermore webtoon #lenore vandernacht #lenore nevermore #annabel lee whitlock #annabel lee nevermore #nevermore theories

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ivystoryweaver · 9 months

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Spectre

A Moon Knight Halloween Love Story

Event #2: It Comes At Night

prev next | Fic Masterlist | My Masterlist | next

Event #2 Summary: A day in the life of Marc...without you. And a night...with you?

Pairing this chapter: Marc Spector x f!reader (alters are mentioned)

Word count: 3.1k

Content: angst (more below the cut)

Warnings: coping with death, grieving, loneliness, fear, longing, language, anxiety, mental health concerns, self-esteem probs (I mean, it's Marc), mentions of food, mentions of therapy, contemplation of DID, graveyard, not beta'd

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PREVIOUSLY on "Spectre"...

The bedside lamp flickered eerily as you repeated your partner's name.

"Marc?"

It dimmed again, slower this time and then suddenly, went dark.

"Shit," Marc hissed, his chest rapidly rising and falling as he scrambled to find his phone.

He knocked into the bedside table with a thump, wincing in pain as his fingers finally found the device. Frantically touching the screen, he activated the flashlight and whirled around

... to no one.

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Event #2: It Comes At Night

There was no more sleep for Marc that night.

Steven and Jake seemed oblivious to the...visitation incident. Or hallucination, perhaps. Marc felt reluctant to clue them in at this point. They had enough struggles as it was, mentally speaking. Marc didn't want to deliver anything in the form of potentially bad news until he knew more.

He had always considered himself a loose cannon in the system anyway. A sort of weakest link. Steven was smart, inquisitive, mindful of the body's needs. Jake was the protector. Steadfast.

Marc didn't want to rock the boat right now. Maybe he was dreaming last night. How many beers did he have? Only one, right?

No matter. He was up early, shuffling through the streets of town to the old Green Lawn cemetery. It certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd visited your grave.

But on this chilly October morning, he needed to ground himself. Reality was his ally.

The macabre decor of neighboring houses didn't loom so ominously in daylight. For that, he was grateful. Still, it was a bit ironic that pretend headstones had made his stomach churn, and here he was, pulling open the heavy iron gate guarding actual headstones.

The hulking old metal groaned out a warning, as if reminding all who entered that its looming density separated the world of the living and the dead.

Marc scurried along the familiar path, down the cemetery's manicured walkway - the kempt grounds attempting to welcome the reluctant living.

Down the center path, past the old poplar tree, leaves painted golden before winter stripped the branches bare. A right turn, over three rows and one more walkway over.

To you.

Heavy fog kissed the earth where you lay resting. Gathering his courage, he trudged the remaining distance to your name. If he only had a little more time with you, maybe that would be his last name there, listed after yours. If you wanted to marry him at all, or even take his name. Fine if you didn't - but still -the possibilities haunted him.

"Hey baby," he softly greeted, sinking his hands protectively into the pockets of his soft leather jacket. "Miss you a lot today. Always do."

A gust of wind sent a flurry of golden brown leaves dancing around your headstone.

"Thought I saw you last night," he continued, hoping a trip here would calm his imagination. "I know it wasn't really you, but...you were sitting on the bed wearing that hoodie you love? You know, the-the one Jake thinks is his, but it's actually mine..."

He darkly chuckled, remembering how cute you looked in that old thing.

"Anyway...I hope...I hope you're resting. I hope you're happy. That's all I want, babe. I just want you to have peace..." His voice trailed off as fresh tears slid down his cheeks. Shaking his head, he cleared his throat. "I miss you."

Pressing a kiss to his fingertips, he traced the shape of your first name. "Love you."

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc continued his morning walk from Green Lawn to historic downtown, where he and Steven worked. This was a small town, and everyone was...or had been proud of their small town author - you. By proxy, they loved and accepted your boyfriend Marc. And Steven and Jake.

Yes, most of the people you had known were aware that you lived with a system, and learned to treat them accordingly.

Marc had a part time job at the hardware store. Steven worked at the library. Jake was a driver, but that took place mostly at night, in the city, or at least to and from the city, which sat about 95 miles to the northeast.

The system stuck to a decently regular schedule, but who was fronting wasn't always so simple. Their employers understood this, and took it into account. Sometimes, Marc worked Steven's library shift, and sometimes Steven worked at the hardware store. Didn't make for as enjoyable of a work day, but they had both learned to deal.

Jake worked for himself, so if he didn't want to drive one night, or if he was exhausted, or busy with Khonshu (or you), he simply didn't drive.

Before he arrived at work, Marc stopped at Triple B's - his favorite breakfast spot, famous for their breakfast burritos. (Hence the name Barney's Breakfast Burritos, or...Triple B's). After weeks of avoiding the townspeople, Marc reluctantly made it a point to interact, at the insistence of both Steven and his therapist.

It's also what you would have wanted. And, if he was honest, as much as he tended to withdraw into himself, he knew he would ultimately feel better with at least a little human interaction. After last night, he kind of didn't want to be alone.

"Spectorrrr, what's up?" Barney, the Triple B's owner called out as Marc pushed open the glass door, ringing a little bell as he did.

"Hey, B," Marc called, over the small crowd of customers gathered to place an order - most of them hyped for some sort of overly sugared fall drink like pumpkin spice something or maple whatever.

Despite Marc being about seven customers deep in line, Barney gave him a quick wave. "Usual?"

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Marc replied.

Barney nodded his head to the side, indicating that Marc should skip the line and ring out his order on the side register. Marc didn't like attention - he didn't want to make anyone else waiting upset, but Barney had a strong personality and he was wonderful to all his customers. He was too charming for anyone to actually get truly mad.

Shouldering his way around the line, Marc made it to the far end of the counter, meeting Barney there.

"You're early," Barney commented, noticing the dark circles under Marc's eyes. Dark circles were part of Marc's look -always had been, but they were deeper today. "You sleep okay?"

"Nope," Marc confessed. Easier to tell Barn the truth. "Tried though. Went to see her this morning."

"Gotcha," Barney nodded, ringing up Marc's typical order of one breakfast burrito all the way, and black coffee. If it was Steven, then the burrito would be vegan and the black coffee would be tea with non-dairy milk. Jake was a rare customer, but he was café au lait and a giant plate of hash browns. Sometimes eggs.

Your order had been the same as Marc's, almost always. Sometimes you liked something sweet to drink.

Marc reached for his cash but Barney refused. "On the house, Mr. Spector."

"No, no, you can't do that," Marc insisted. "I'm gonna put you out of business if you keep on giving me food."

Barney stubbornly folded his big arms over his round tummy. "I knew your girl since she was twelve-years-old. Miss her all the time. Can't even imagine how it is for you boys. A burrito and coffee's the least I can do."

Marc's order was up, so Barney handed him a brown paper bag and a similarly drab disposable paper cup with a lid. "You go on and have a nice day, and get some rest tonight, all right?"

Well damn. Marc had tears in his eyes for about the fifth time in as many hours.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Marc chomped through his breakfast by the time he meandered two blocks down to the hardware store. Work was uneventful, which was a blessing today. He needed this - a day to be left alone and work with his hands. Between his free breakfast, some encouragement from Barney and a low-key day on the job, he left that evening feeling marginally better.

It had even helped him to stop by and see you. He missed you so badly he could hardly breathe sometimes, but it somehow helped him to really accept you were gone and imagine you were at peace.

He passed by the library, remembering Steven had a shift tomorrow. Hopefully his alter would be up and about, so to speak, because Marc wasn't in the mood to shelve books.

Next he passed the florist. Mrs. Alraune paused her task of sweeping off her shop's front stoop to give Marc a little wave.

A few more doors down, he saw a shop he'd never noticed before. Must be new for Halloween.

A simple, hand painted sign swung over the doorway. It read, "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties". What and odd name for a shop. Marc almost smiled to himself because this is exactly the type of shop you would love to venture into while walking through town. Still...he decided against it since the sun had set and he wanted to get home.

No need to spoil his sort-of-okay day.

His hands found their home in his jacket pockets and his head dropped - his typical hurry-through-town posture.

But the "Mystic Delights and Other Charming Novelties" shop was not to be ignored this October evening.

Twinkling lights lined the shop's windows. They flickered ominously as Marc approached.

"Lovely evening," an elderly female voice intoned, seeming to appear in the shop's doorway in an instant.

Marc's pacing paused. Pressing his lips into a thin-lined smile, he nodded, ready to carry on.

"Won't you come inside before it's too late?" The old woman inquired, kind eyes nearly hidden by wrinkles. She gestured with her hand at the shop's window, adorned with antique treasures. Perhaps this was a new antique store.

"Uhh, sorry, I have to get home," Marc halfway fibbed. "Goodnight."

She nodded understandingly. "Safe journey to all who protect the travelers of the night."

That phrase gave him pause...protector of the travelers of the night...

His eyes narrowed as he glanced back her way. "Uh...thanks."

With that, he headed home.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

He passed by Mrs. Nockles' house without an invitation inside. He avoided the run down old spooky house and even managed to ignore the house with the fake headstones.

This brought him to your front yard. Well...his front yard now. The thought of owning this home by himself reminded him why he was considering leaving this town.

His eyes traced a path up the front walk to the whitewashed steps of the front porch. You had only just repainted the front door last spring. Most of the houses in the neighborhood were nearly a century old, and painted bright, artsy colors. Marc remembered the playful argument as to whether the front door would be painted periwinkle blue (his choice) or cornflower blue (your choice). You won, of course.

He couldn't really see the door right now because it was dark, and because he forgot to turn on the front porch light before he left. Even in the dark, he could only imagine how your flower bed had overgrown with weeds during the summer. Fall would give way to winter and the whole damn thing would probably shrivel up and die.

Pretty typical. Marc felt like a bit of a curse to everything he touched.

Blowing out a breath, he bounced on his toes. "I'm sorry, babe. I'm off day after tomorrow and I'll get out here and...I'll try for you, okay? Promise."

'Packed up her garden tools. I'll get 'em out tomorrow night.'

Jake.

The system must be feeling feelings because Jake hardly said anything.

"Thank you," Marc voiced aloud.

'Course. Knew you would go looking for 'em when you were ready. I can help if you want. Probably shit at it but we can let her whole damn garden die, can we?'

Marc laughed out. It was a strange, almost bitter sound. As if he could stop anything bad from happening ever. Kind of Jake to offer though.

Probably enough time lurking around in his front yard. With a heavy sigh, Marc gave the bungalow a final once over when something strange caught his eye. Up in the highest window appeared a figure - a woman.

Your bungalow was small, but a master bedroom had been added about twenty-five years ago on a partial upper story. It was about all that was upstairs aside from a small hallway, master bath, and a tiny loft you spent your days writing in, when you weren't sitting on the porch or the back deck.

Marc squeezed his eyes shut and then rubbed them in a cartoonish manner to make sure he wasn't imagining something else that wasn't really there.

But sure enough, when he looked again, he could clearly see a woman - about your size.

It couldn't be.

"Wait," he whispered, dashing up the whitewashed steps even faster than the night before when he was panicking.

"Wait!" He called louder, jamming his key into the deadbolt. It seemed to take forever, but finally, he made it inside, not bothering to shut or lock the front door behind him as he bolted toward the stairs.

He sprinted upward so fast that he almost tripped over his boots, bursting into your bedroom...which was empty.

"Damn it!" He cried, tossing his keys aside and pushing his hands through his hair in frustration. Maybe he really was losing his mind. Or maybe he just wanted to see you again so badly.

With a huff, he scoped up his keys - he had to put them in the kitchen or Steven would never find them in the morning. Stumbling back downstairs, he shut and locked the front door, did put the keys on the counter and grabbed a glass of water.

He should probably eat but all he wanted to do was shower and go to bed. The nice day he'd attempted to construct for himself had been obliterated by his stupid brain playing spooky tricks on him.

Ridiculous.

After a quick shower, Marc wrapped a towel around his hips and trudged back into the bedroom.

He half expected you or some sort of spectre to be waiting for him on the end of his bed. But there was no one, which was an oddly painful relief.

Maybe time for a drink. Of course Steven would insist that food accompany any alcohol. So Marc found some black joggers and pulled them over his hips, tossing aside his towel.

His nightly ritual was beginning to look depressingly mundane and overly repetitive. He had a glass of whiskey tonight instead of a beer, and made himself a sandwich. After watching some more postseason Major League Baseball, Marc went to bed.

And stared at the ceiling. He wanted to be tired. He just wasn't.

He needed a friend. Or a pet? Steven liked fish. Jake liked cats. Marc wasn't sure what he liked. Hmm.

He tossed and turned, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

Just when his eyelids grew heavy, he heard the faintest whisper.

His eyes snapped right back open.

It happened again - an indistinguishable whisper - something almost mumbled, but so softly.

Whatever he was hearing became obscured by the harsh, shallow breaths he was now taking. He squinted his eyes as if it would help him distinguish the darkened room from the pitch black corner, from which the sound emanated.

Slowly, a figure emerged from the blackness.

Marc sat up in bed, staring as he leaned forward, certain he couldn't actually be seeing someone in his room.

The whisper sounded again as the dark figure seemed to float closer.

Marc had dealt with the vilest of criminals in his lifetime. The worst of the worst. He wasn't afraid of anyone.

But he was afraid now. And paralyzed, somehow.

The figure inched closer to the bed.

Marc's skin prickled with heat, even as a wave of chills swept over his bare chest and arms. Breaths quickened to shallow pants as the figure hovered dangerously near.

"It's...too late," the figure murmured, as faint as a breeze.

Heart thundering in his chest, Marc tried to move - to reach for a light, or his phone, or ask for Jake or Khonshu or something...but found himself completely paralyzed.

"W-who...what are you?" He finally gasped, shrinking backwards toward the headboard of his bed, physically unable to do anything more productive.

Then...he could have sworn he heard your voice.

"Marc."

Suddenly, he could move. He bolted off the opposite side of the bed and reached for the light, switching it on.

No one was there.

"Fuck..."

Hot tears pricked his eyes as his fingers tore through his dark curls. "What the fuck is happening to me?"

His alters were strangely absent. They were often a bit one-at-a-time with the body, but couldn't they hear you?

Even the lamplight spilling into the room left a few darkened corners. Marc grabbed his phone, switching on his flashlight. He swept the room, searching every corner, behind the curtains, in the closet, under the bed, and finally the master bathroom.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered if Steven would notice his distress. Shaking his head in frustration, he switched off his flashlight and splashed his face with water. He probably wouldn't be able to sleep again. Hopefully Jake would need the body. If not, Marc was considering smashing his fists into something himself. Or someone.

He was wired and frantic and so fucking sad. And scared. What if he really was losing it? It was one thing to grow up thinking he was fucked up, but now, his problems were Steven and Jake's. How could he tell them he was hallucinating?

Maybe...maybe this was another alter? He didn't know. He finally grabbed his phone and walked back into the bedroom.

You were there. In the same hoodie. On the edge of the bed.

"Shit!" He hissed, jerking back in surprise.

You actually flinched, rising from your seated position and easing backward toward the window.

"No, no, wait, don't go!" Marc urgently pleaded, holding out his hand to try to get you to stop.

Your face was somewhat obscured by the hood pulled over your hair, but it had to be you. It was you.

"Sweetheart, It's okay. Don't go. Don't go," he begged, easing carefully toward you.

You backed so far away from him that you almost blended in with the curtain. He was sure you were about to Jacob Marley right out the window.

The lamp flickered again, just as it had done the previous night. Then went black. Marc rushed blindly toward the window, yanking open the curtain. Moonlight spilled into the bedroom, granting him the slightest ability to see.

"It's not too late," the whisper echoed, right beside his ear...but you were nowhere to be seen.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

I tagged everyone in the first update and masterlist, but since this fic does eventually venture into nsfw, I'm now doing the tag list for that specifically. (The general NSFW list and the Moon Knight NSFW list.) If you want to be tagged for this story, just holler!

Join the tag list (or tell me your tagging preferences by fandom and NSFW/SFW)

@deputy-videogamer @toecurlingstories @zephyrixx @juleshadalittlelamb @tsukkie-daisuke

@pockcock @minigirl87 @uncle-eggy@cookielovesbook-akie @wyldeflwr

@animechick555 @tiffanypooh @thexsanctuaryx @majestic-jazmin @rosecentaur1916

@deezisnotreal @serren-diamandis @alexxavicry @onefinnedwonder-fm @spidey-3

@stevengmybeloved @just3rowsing @howellatme

@i-still-dont-like-your-face @wordacadabra @lilacspider @imonmykneessir @saints-and-sinners

@steven-grants-world @thewinterv @aquaarietes @suddenlysteven @ohantonia

@whatthefishh @sammi-doll483 @silvernight-m

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aaeeart · 11 months

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I've been reading @anoray 's Spectre One Rises and dang if there was ever a fanfic that got me sad it's not canon 😭

Anyway, I took it as an excuse to draw Kanan again - inspired by the fanfic of course :)

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glowinggreeneyes-e · 6 months

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BBC Ghosts Coda - Christmas 2023 spoilers ahead

Alison knows she’s dying. It’s been like that for a while, but now it’s time. Call it a ‘sense of impending doom’ or whatever, though, it’s been bad news for months, or years, or a few hours. She can’t tell of much with any certainty except that she is dying.

And the Higham Suite is waiting for her. Pristine. Cosy. Home. Bone House; Higham House; Button House; now Horsley Hotel. It was still home. Albeit booked on a rolling fee.

She doesn’t intend on staying long, though.

She doesn’t tell anyone, but Mia quickly catches on when the letters started piling up, the concerned neighbours started calling, and her mother’s voice sounded slower over the phone, words pinched together like wet clay.

And she tracks her mum’s phone, obviously (she never learnt how to turn off ‘Find My’). Mia is grateful for that. Her mum never wanted to be worried about. Even if it was time for her to be cared for.

Alison held Mike’s hand for the last time nearly a decade back. Now Mia’s holding hers, together in that sacred room in that gorgeous, special house, made a home by the spirits that live on there. Mia doesn’t see the others around them, but her mum is talking to the air like she sometimes does and she knows she’s not insane. Just ill… dying.

Mia sobs. Alison squeezes her hand and turns her pillow-cuddled head to talk to her.

She talks until the sun sets and rises, until birds bother the morning air with song and their wings, until her clay words melt into a drowsy mould of sentiment, then slowly melt away.

Alison closes her eyes and Mia squeezes her hand.

When Alison looks around again, she doesn’t feel the digging, wretched pain in her rotten ribs and struggling heart. She doesn’t feel the throbbing headache that crowned her skull. She can sit up, breathe, fill a chest that isn’t really there. She’s more alive than the illness that tried to best her, even if she’s not a tangible spectre to the living.

And she sees her friends are there still waiting. Her ghosts. Her family. She can hold Kitty’s hands and feel Robin’s coat and grip the Captain’s swagger stick and pull on Pat’s tie and hold Humphrey’s head. She doesn’t touch Lady Button, a nod and a knowing smile suffice. She doesn’t allow Thomas to touch her, but the years have mellowed and jaded him, so courtesy thumbs up does the job.

Finally, she asks Julian to push over the cup of water on the table beside her body.

Mia is driven from her grief by the signal. She smiles, glances around the seemingly empty room, and tells them all she’ll be back at Christmas.

#is this too soon??#writing #coda #bbc ghosts spoilers #ficlet #alison #bbc ghosts #mia #death #fanfic #christmas episode #idk how to tag this #angst #bittersweet #sorry!!!#cast

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princesspampuria · 11 months

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For @teamdoubleoh, @teamqbranch and @teamcivilian

Much good it will do you 😹😹😹

#007 fest #teamofvillains #the annual mi6 games are approaching their end #team of villains will make me proud #spectre will rise again #i'm princess pampuria and i'm a 10 #the tank awaits our enemies!

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saiyanprincessswanie · 8 months

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SaiyanPrincessSwanie - Reading List Week 169 & 170

Welcome to Weeks 169 & 170

A/N: Thank you again to those who gave me recommendations for fanfics. Especially all the Kinktober goodies. 💜 This week had me reading 60 fics. Absolutely amazing stuff here.

As always these will be listed in no particular order. None of these stories are mine. I’m just signal-boosting them. The author is listed next to the title. My goal is to signal boost writers and spread positivity in the community. 💜💜

Click HERE to see what I will or won’t read. This is very important.

Click HERE for past reading lists.

For my Masterlist click HERE

Please make sure you’re reading the warnings on every story. They range from dark to fluff. Do Not Read if you are under 18 years old. These stories are meant for adults only. You’re responsible for your own media consumption.

Page-break by @whimsicalrogers

Header by @fictional-affairs

If you can, please reblog these lists so they can reach more people on Tumblr.

I love you 3000 💜 Missy

Falling in Love with You - (Bucky x Reader) - @/saiyanprincessswanie

Trapped in the unknown - @nekoannie-chan

Bad Moon Rising - @spectre-posts

Mine to Keep - (Scott L x Reader) - @the-soulofdevil

Kinktober 2023, Day 5 - (Ransom x Reader) - @georgiapeach30513

Day 13: Somnophilia - (Bucky x Reader) - @writing-for-marvel

Kinktober Week 2: Formal Wear - (Bucky x Reader) - @lunarbuck

Insatiable - (Bucky x Reader) - @jobean12-blog

One Night With You ~ Pt 2 - (Bucky x Reader) - @jtargaryen18

Yes, Ma'am - (Steve x Reader) - @notyetneedcoffee

How Far Down - (Mickey H x Reader) - @navybrat817

Never His - (Destroyer!chris x Reader) - @/navybrat817

Forever In Your Eyes - (Bucky x Reader) - @flordeamatista

it's you and me - (Lee x Reader) - @nickfowlerrr

Stuck in an elevator - @drabblewithfrannybarnes

monuments and melodies - (Bucky x Reader) - @thornsnvultures

Heart of Darkness - (Bucky x Reader) - @/jobean12-blog

Puppy - (Cole T x Reader) - @holylulusworld

Kinktober 2023, Day 6 - (Bucky x Reader) - @/georgiapeach30513

Basement - (Brock x Reader) - @/nekoannie-chan

Mine - (Bucky x Reader) - @/notyetneedcoffee

Kinktober Week 2: Double Penetration - (Stucky x Reader) - @/lunarbuck

Just What I Needed (1) - (Bucky x Reader) - @/lunarbuck

Old pets - @/nekoannie-chan

Soft Hearts, Gentle Words - (Bucky x Reader) - @rookthorne

Heaven on Earth - (Bucky x Reader) - @/navybrat817

Be Mine - (Bucky x Reader) - @flordeamatista

Trouble - (Dean x Reader) - @spnexploration

Soul enemies - @/nekoannie-chan

Just What I Needed (2) - (Bucky x Reader) - @/lunarbuck

Learn My Lesson - (Steve x Reader) - @cockslutpadalecki

Day 16: Massage - (Bucky x Reader) - @/writing-for-marvel

Home - @the-soulofdevil

Strut - (Bucky x Reader) - @/notyetneedcoffee

Fulfilled - (Curtis x Reader) - @stargazingfangirl18

Toys 'R' Us - @americasass81

Just Right - Chp 6 - (Steve x Reader) - @darsynia

Real Life Tasks With Ransom - Day 19 - @wiypt-writes @sweater-daddiesdumbdork

The Root of all Ransom - Part 5 - (Ransom x Reader) - @ronearoundblindly

Though I Have Never Read It - Part 5 - (Bucky x Reader) - @tuiccim

Threadbare - Part 5 - (Steve x Reader) - @/ronearoundblindly

Collared part 21 - @spnexploration

Collared part 22 - @/spnexploration

Fresh Fallen Snow, Part 8 - (Curtis x Reader) - @georgiapeach30513

His Inheritance - Part 24 - (Steve x Reader) - @jtargaryen18

Temple in the forest - @/nekoannie-chan

Rules and Chaos - (Bucky x Reader) - @/navybrat817

Come Here - (Steve x Reader) - @/notyetneedcoffee

Curtis and Honey Autumn This Or That - Lots of Candles - (Curtis x Reader) - @sweater-daddiesdumbdork

Insider - @/nekoannie-chan

Day 19: Sex Toys - (Bucky x Reader) - @/writing-for-marvel

THE MAGICIAN - (Lloyd x Reader x Nick) - @/flordeamatista

Cat & Mouse - (Loki x Reader) - @animnerd

Sanctuary - (Robert P x Reader) - @/stargazingfangirl18

such a tease - (Stucky x Reader) - @/nickfowlerrr

The closet of desire - (Ari x Reader) @nicoline1998enilocin

The Bet - @/notyetneedcoffee

Alpha? - (Lee x Reader) - @/animnerd

Urban building - @/nekoannie-chan

Perfect Kind of Trouble - (Bucky x Reader) - @jobean12-blog

#saiyanprincessswanie #recommended reading #missy reads #missy reblogs #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #scott lang x reader #ransom drysdale x reader #mickey henry x reader #destroyer!chris x reader #lee bodecker x reader #cole turner x reader #brock rumlow x reader #stucky x reader #curtis everett x reader

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coffeeanddonutscafe · 3 months

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Cold Comfort

Astarion has a nightmare and fluff unfolds.

Summary:

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?"

Notes:

I plan to make this a fluff fic, with a mix of introspections, pondering and some deep self-reflection from Astarion's point of view. I do want to envelop him into the gentle world of fluff, like a warm hug he deserves so much.

Chapter 1: Nightmares of the Past

Astarion had a nightmare again. It was as though the cruel hands of the past had woven together the threads of his torment into a ghastly tapestry. As he awoke, his chest was gripped by an icy fear... The spectre of his most malevolent tormentor, Cazador Szarr, haunted him once more, like a relentless ghost in the recesses of his mind. The horrors of those centuries clung to him still. His chest was bound tight with the remnants of panic that had gripped him in his meditative slumber.

In the stillness of the night, Astarion's undead heart seemed almost eager to escape its cursed confines, to flee the unending torment of its existence. It was almost aching to free itself from the relentless grasp of its vampiric origin.

His once-sharp memory, a wellspring of snarky retorts and witty observations, had now become a Rolodex of agonizing recollections. Each year spent serving his monstrous master etched into his consciousness like a scar that refused to fade.

"More like - slaved my ass out," Astarion murmured, the words like a breath of frost. He hesitated for a moment, his mind still reeling from the horrors of his nightmare, before finally summoning the resolve to open his tent flap and peer out into the night. With a heavy sigh, the vampire spawn emerged from his tent.

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness, the silence punctuated only by the soft crackle of the fire, a lone sentinel against the encroaching dark. The night's tendrils clung to the trees, weaving shadowy tapestries upon the forest floor. It was a scene both haunting and beautiful, a fragile barrier between the world of the living and the realm of the supernatural. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. He felt a maelstrom of emotions churning within him. Disgust gnawed at him for the unspeakable acts he had been compelled to commit, anger simmered for the powerlessness that bound him to this cursed fate, fear coursed through his veins at the mere thought of Cazador Szarr, and shame weighed heavy for the ceaseless humiliations he had endured.

It was in this state of inner turmoil that Astarion's gaze fell upon the tent before him. HER tent. His mind raced to quell the rising suspicion that he had strategically chosen this spot, that he yearned to keep watch over the inhabitant within. Of course, he couldn't admit to himself that he found comfort in her presence, a small ember of relief amidst the encroaching darkness.

Suddenly, movement caught his eye, a subtle shift in the fabric of the aforementioned tent. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. The sight of her face peeking out agitated something in him. Astarion couldn't help but think that she looked utterly adorable in her sleep-induced dishevelment. A smile, unbidden, crept onto his lips.

Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?" Tav, still lost in the haze of sleep, squirmed slightly and blinked her bleary eyes at him. It took her a moment to register his presence. "I'm thirsty," she mumbled, her voice heavy with drowsiness. "Mmm...water."

Tav's response, half-mumbled and sleepy, pulled Astarion from the clutches of his own nightmarish reverie. She was the anchor he hadn't known he needed, a soothing balm for his troubled soul.

He smiled and gently touched her shoulder. "Well, darling, why don't you stay here in your bedroll, and I'll bring you some water," he suggested in a tender tone reserved solely for her. She yawned, giving a lopsided blink, before nodding in agreement and crawling back into her tent. Astarion's eyes lingered on her retreating form, admiring the delicate curves of her figure and the grace she brought to even the simplest movements.

As Tav disappeared from his view, the enchantment of her presence seemed to dissipate, leaving Astarion once again ensnared by the spectre of his night terror. He huffed in frustration as the pain in his chest tightened a visceral reminder of the torment that continued to haunt him. With a sigh, he rose to fetch water from the camp's supply.

As Astarion approached the camp's water source, he undid the cap of the tank, only to find it empty. His irritation flared, and his anticipation for a quick and easy retrieval of water was swiftly quashed. Fetching water for Tav in the nearest spring water source, was an inconvenience he'd hoped to avoid, as it meant she would have to wait a little longer, and that unsettled him.

He couldn't bear the thought of her trudging to the nearby stream, especially in the middle of the night. She needed her rest, and she needed someone to look out for her, she deserved someone who cared for her needs. The same way she cared for everyone, Astarion included.

Tav had taken it upon herself to be the camp's beacon of hope and light. A task made all the more challenging by the peculiarities of their situation. Her efforts were tireless, a testament to her kind heart and unyielding spirit. Astarion observed her interactions with the others, noting the care with which she tended to their individual needs.

Wyll, burdened by his own demons (quite literally), found solace in her gentle words and comforting pats on the back. Shadowheart, often stoic and reserved, seemed to find a confidante in Tav, sharing her thoughts and concerns, well whenever she felt like it. With Halsin and Lae'zel, Tav posed questions to draw them out of their moments when their moods turned sombre. And Gale, ever in need of encouragement, was the recipient of Tav's unwavering support.

Tav's efforts were nothing short of remarkable. Her resourcefulness in their daily travels and on the battlefield drew Astarion's admiration. He recalled with a hint of amusement the impromptu dance-off she had orchestrated with Karlach recently, a move that had brought mirth and merriment to their camp. The laughter that had ensued had been a rare and precious gift in their grim circumstances.

With a resigned sigh, Astarion retraced his steps, returning to Tav's tent. He gingerly opened the flap and peered inside, revealing Tav in a state of half-sleep, waiting expectantly. Crawling into her tent, he whispered to her as he crouched by her side, "Darling, the water tank is empty. I'll have to make a trip to the nearest spring. Tav let out a cute huff of frustration but managed a sleepy smile, whispering her understanding, "Okay."

Astarion's hand found its way to her cheek, a touch both tender and reassuring before he scanned her surroundings and procured Tav's leather water flask, making his exit. The night enveloped him as he ventured out. The sky was adorned with stars, and the crescent moon cast a gentle glow upon the camp's periphery. Although his vampiric night vision rendered the need for artificial light obsolete, the ambience of the night still held a certain charm.

It was a calm walk to the water spring. Astarion admitted to himself that it was very pleasant. Pleasantries like these were a rarity in his undead existence. Each step he took through this benevolent realm with Tav and the group, felt both uncomfortable and disconcertingly new. The effort it took to acclimate to such kindness, to a world that offered gentleness instead of brutality, was not lost on him. The scars of his past still pulsed within him, a constant reminder of the wounds he carried.

The path to the spring was a brief one, a mere five-minute stroll. It was a relief, for he didn't wish to keep Tav waiting for long. Her eagerness to cater to his needs, to sate his hunger as soon as she sensed it, struck a chord within him. He wanted to do the same. The desire to bring her comfort became a yearning he couldn’t deny.

As he pondered the depth of his desire to please her, he couldn't help but marvel at the power she held over him, a force that transcended the boundaries of their tangled fates.

______________________________________

CHAPTER 2: Sleepy Solace

My other Astarion-related fanfictions. Introspection

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